Cigarette
by Kat J
Summary: A fic about Philip. Warning: strong language and an edgier version of Philip. R/R please.


I disclaim. I don't own the character of Philip. 

WARNING: This is a much edgier interpretation of Philip, so keep that in mind.

  
  


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It always fucking rained after a thorough bombing. It was like the sky was crying right along with the wounded and those left to grieve the dead. Mothers. Sisters. Brothers. Fathers.  
  


The sky was crimson, but stained with dirty grey smoke and black billowy clouds. The rain fell just as black and it coated his skin, burning just a bit. He didn't care, he was used to it by now.   
  


Used to the smell of it.   
  


The taste of it.   
  


The sight of it.   
  


Just fucking used to it. Period.   
  


Wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he tried to clear his throat, but it was so thick with debris and dried blood he could barely swallow. When was the last time he took a drink? He couldn't remember the details any longer. All the days were beginning to fuse together and he could barely distinguish night from day anymore. He was fairly certain it was night though, he could still hear the scream of bullets and the flare of fire in the distance.   
  


It was nights like that, that he yearned for Lena, the fifty-dollar hooker, he'd left back at training camp, with those dark black eyes. She had thick thighs and such a tender heart. She was barely legal, but he didn't care; didn't want to think about it as he sank into her warmth and wiped away a weeks worth of feeling useless and being called 'shit for brains'.  
  


She'd rub his blonde head affectionately and call him 'Phee'lip' in that soft Mexican accent of hers. It was the sweetest words he'd hear all week. And now he'd close his eyes and think of her and that wonderfully dark skin of hers and those thighs and that saccharin voice and wish he could go back. Not to his rich-kid life though, he never wanted to go back to that.  
  


There was no silver spoon in his mouth choking him anymore. He was free of that high-class, socialite, sissy shit. Sure, he missed the easy moron debutants that gave the sweetest head he'd ever had, but he wasn't some snobby rich kid anymore and he didn't give a fuck about getting laid. Not when the smell of blood accompanied his morning piss and he nearly puked the pre-processed breakfast that looked already eaten.   
  


And he probably couldn't get an erection even if he wanted one, he'd pumped himself so full of narcotics; eaten at least six quaaludes just that day and he was still fucking awake.   
  


They were supposed to calm him, not make him so god-damned pumped he couldn't sit still for longer than ten minutes. Maybe it was the fact that his whole unit had been wiped out and he sat there like a pussy while their dead bodies bred disease and decay.  
  


They hadn't trained him for this. He didn't remember reading that part in the survival manual.  
  


He just wanted to feel normal again.  
  


But he was beginning to forget what normal was.  
  


Somewhere between faking his way through basic training and the rigours of being a punk kid with no ambition, life started to matter. One day, he just woke up and didn't want to blow his fucking brains out anymore. He woke up and for the first time in his eighteen wasted years, he felt alive. And now he was facing death because he couldn't have figured it all out before he signed up to be a bloody target in a war that he didn't give a shit about. He was back to that place where his dark thoughts took precedence over anything and he would gladly trade his life for some shut eye.   
  


Eternal sleep.  
  


He nearly laughed, but couldn't force the air into his lungs.  
  


He knew death would be coming soon. One day his luck was going to run out and one stray bullet or some shrapnel from friendly fire was going to bite him in the ass. He'd rot away, alone and empty and maybe his last thought would be of Lena and he'd think of her body as she moved over him and let her dark chestnut hair fall over his chest and the soft waves would tickle and they'd tumble together until he got his fifty bucks worth.   
  


Or maybe he'd think of Chloe, the one love of his life. The only. Maybe he'd imagine their tree and her smile, but probably not. It was the past and he'd learned to forget the past. Forget all the people he thought wronged him and forget the childish, bratty behaviour that had cost him the thing he wanted the most and would never have again.   
  


Love.  
  


He was a man now and had manly habits instead of the prepubescent games that could never have landed him in tighter spots than he was in now. 

Besides the dime bag a day habit, he'd also picked up smoking cigarettes. The rush of nicotine coursing through his body was the only thing keeping him with any sense of reality these days.   
  


Setting down the heavy artillery weapon, he reached into his pack and slipped out a pack of Marlboro's. Turning the square over, he pulled out the last cigarette. It was his last, little piece of reality and he could already feel it slipping away.   
  


And just as he put the tip into his mouth and let it dangle while he looked for a match, he heard the distinct click of a gun cocking.   
  


This was it.   
  


He'd been ready for it.   
  


Death was inevitable.  
  


As he turned and stared blankly into the barrel of said gun, he didn't feel so confident. Today he wouldn't die and a part of him felt...disappointed.   
  


The cigarette nearly slipped from his lips as he eyed the soldier. He was a kid, no older than sixteen and just as fucking terrified as he was. His eyes were dark and dull as the night sky and rimmed red from sleepless nights and probably tears.   
  


"Go ahead," he challenged still searching for a match while the rain began to soak through the white tip of the cigarette.   
  


The boy tipped his gun down, and stuck his hand into his jacket, pulling out a box of matches. A grin lit his face and those black eyes came to life as he offered them in exchange for a puff.   
  


Nodding in agreement, his dimpled smile lit up the faded background and his blue eyes danced in amusement.   
  


Reality wasn't as far off as he thought, but this, this was something surreal. Two soldiers from opposing sides, sitting around huffing a Marlboro while their colleagues blew each other up.   
  


This was humanity.   
  


This was real.  
  


He'd always gotten what he wanted, but today...today he wouldn't even come close. There would be no bullet to the brain, no steel to the chest, just a smoke between mortal enemies who weren't enemies at all. And he felt better than he had in a long, long time.   
  
  
  



End file.
